


Furry Little Secret

by 80000_Bees



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Werewolf, Werewolf!Owen, cuddly feel good shit, post park, so more tags as I go, this'll probably turn into multiple chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5048548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/80000_Bees/pseuds/80000_Bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen's got something to tell you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furry Little Secret

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK TO HELL.  
> This will probably become multi-chapter. In the meantime, enjoy.

You and Owen have been dating for seven months when he sits you down on the couch, and gently takes your hand.

The serious, earnest look on his face makes you nervous. He’s doing the thing with his eyebrows that make him look like a Labrador puppy. This is the same face he was doing right before he broke it to you that your escapades the night before had put a hole through the plasterboard wall, and he knew your landlord would have to add it to the rent. It’s gotta be really serious if he’s doing that face.

‘Okay, what’s wrong?’ you ask.

‘Nothing’s wrong, but I just wanted you to be sitting down before I told you this.’ He squeezes your hand, taking a deep breath, and you brace yourself for the worst.

It comes out in a big, tense exhale. ‘I’m a werewolf.’

You’re pretty sure you misheard him. ‘What?’

‘I’m… I’m a werewolf.’

‘What.’

He’s pulling a pained face, like he’s expecting you to laugh. You do, snickering. ‘Owen…’

‘I’m not kidding.’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever,’ you smirk. ‘Good one.’

He sighs, like he was expecting this. ‘I can smell Thai restaurants from two blocks away. I can hear you singing under your breath from the other side of the house…’

‘That doesn’t mean you’re not _a werewolf-’_

‘…I eat more than anyone either of us knows, and there’s hair all over my house no matter how much I clean, but I don’t own a dog.’

You narrow your eyes. He’s awfully committed to this joke; the dog hair has been in his house since you started dating. Some small part of you realises that Owen being a werewolf would explain a number of little oddities.

‘Okay,’ you say evenly. ‘If you are a werewolf, you’ve got to show me you being a werewolf. Under the full moon and all that.’

He brightens a little bit, looking relieved that you’re not completely closed to the idea. ‘Of course – that was the idea.’

‘So when’s the next full moon?’

He glances at the calendar. It’s one of those ones that has the lunar cycle, as well as holidays and stuff. Another piece of puzzle fits into place.

‘I can do that in a week,’ he says. ‘No problem.’

* * *

You agree to come around a week’s time, and then the two of you barely talk about it again.

The thought of it is always creeping in your mind like a bad smell, namely because it raises so many damn questions. Is he in control of himself? You have visions of Owen grimly chaining himself to a basement wall, waiting for moonlight to stream through the barred window, screaming and straining as the transformation starts. Or maybe he just goes _poof_ and he’s big and hairy. There’s a lot of tropes to choose from.

‘I’m not kidding,’ he tells you during a walk in the park. ‘It’s true. I swear on my mother’s grave. I got it from her – runs in the family.’

He nudges a red autumn leaf with the toe of his boot. ‘I just wanted to tell you. It was so tiring to keep it from you. But I think… I think I can trust you now.’

‘You just don’t want to clean up after your secret dog,’ you say, trying to keep it light.

He smiles. ‘I’m the secret dog, dammit.’

* * *

The week trickles by, and then you’re at his house for the night. Movies, and Thai takeaway – your favourite, and steadily becoming his too.

You have an early dinner, and only make it through one movie because he has to be ready by 5:16 pm. Moonrise.

You give him a sidelong look as the pair of you clean empty containers away. ‘You’re really committed to this prank, aren’t you?’

He gives you the longest look ever. ‘I didn’t lie to you about the dinosaurs – why would I lie to you about this?’

‘What the heck did you do on full moons when you were with the dinosaurs, then?’

He pushes the coffee table to the wall, clearing space in the living room. ‘I lived in a cabin out in the jungle for a reason, you know. Meant nobody had to know.’

He hauls off his shirt and wriggles out of his pants. You don’t know why that needs to be done but you’re 100% behind this development. You find your eyes wandering over his biceps, down his chest, following the trail of hair to his daggy old boxers that he loves and you hate.

He catches your roaming eye and smiles wryly. ‘If I leave my clothes on they get ruined.’

You’re happily watching the gentle rise and fall of his lovely broad chest. ‘I’m always for any scenario that requires you taking your shirt off. Boxers stay on, though?’

The smile gets wider. ‘Thought it might be less weird if I wasn’t buck naked. These have a hole in the crotch. Time to sacrifice them. Thought you’d like to see them go.’

‘I’ll buy you a whole heap of new ones.’

He sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, getting comfy. ‘The cotton ones. Polyester doesn’t breathe.’

‘Sure. Least I can do.’

You’re both silent for a while – him sitting on the floor, hands on his knees, looking at the hairy carpet, you lounging on the couch, half admiring his nearly naked body, half tensely wondering what happens now.

‘Sooo…’ you venture. ‘Do we just wait?’

Owen glances out the window, looking for the moon. It’s just peeping over the neighbours roof. ‘Yeah, just… hang out. S’not good to be standing up when this happens. You kinda just have to sii _irrcck-’_

He clenches his jaw and his body goes rigid, shuddering as the tendons on his neck and shoulders stand up like taunt ropes. The muscles down his chest and abdomen ripple under his skin, like he’s trying to hold something together. For a split second as you sit bolt upright on the couch, you’re reminded of your worst period cramps.

And suddenly he just sort of… _pops_ , like he can’t hold it in anymore. There’s a waterfall of fur, and he boils over like milk in the microwave. You leap back over the couch, fully ready to sprint for the door, when the whole show suddenly grinds to a halt.

The mound of fur makes a little whimpering noise.

You peer over the couch, hardly daring to breathe. The mountain of fur moves, (it’s the same reddish brown, wiry fluffy curls as Owen’s hair, only longer and shaggier) and a pair of strong front paws slide out across the carpet, and a pair of pointed ears – taller and narrower than the German Sheppard down the road, and further down the head.

He looks up at you – head down, ears back, licking his nose in submission like he’s sorry for being here – and it’s unmistakably Owen. You’d recognise those big grey-blue eyes under all the fur in the world.

He looks extremely sorry, hunkered down to the floor, barely moving. He doesn’t want to frighten you; it’s written in every line of his body. He just wants you to see and understand.

‘Owen?’ you breathe.

The ears prick up, and the tail wags against the floor.

He still doesn’t move, or lift his head, and you realise he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He wants you to address this on your terms.

You climb over the couch, staring, reaching for him. He presses his head into your outstretched hand, closing his eyes, completely trusting.

You stroke his fur gently, stunned, mumbling; ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.’

He licks your hand in acceptance. His tongue is pretty much how you remember it being. You scratch him behind the ears, unsure of the etiquette here, but he seems to like it, tail thumping against the floor.

‘Can you talk?’ you ask.

He shakes his head, and licks your hand again.

‘Guess it’s the snout,’ you murmur, smiling. ‘You like doing that, don’t you?’

He takes it as an invitation to start licking up your whole arm, like he’s trying to slobber all over you as fast as possible. You snicker and shove him away, and he pushes back to lick your face, and you’re laughing uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all, of your boyfriend being a werewolf that looks more like a pony-sized family dog than any wolf, of him licking your face, of how casually he told you… just everything.

* * *

‘So you said this is a hereditary thing?’

You’re both sitting on the couch, with a big bowl of microwave popcorn, watching shitty conspiracy documentaries on Netflix. He’s still huge and furry, sitting on the whole of the couch, head in your lap, the bowl of popcorn balanced between his fat body and the back of the couch, and you’re dropping bits of popcorn into his mouth.

He nods vigorously, and you toss him another piece of popcorn. The ongoing game of 20 questions is steadily filling in the holes.

You shove popcorn into your mouth. ‘So your Mum had it – did your Dad have it too?’

He shakes his head. He’s very warm, and very heavy – his jawbone feels like hot metal wrapped in fur.

‘Must have been a shock to him when he found out.’

He nods hugely, eyes rolling with how much of a surprise that had been.

You snicker, tossing him more popcorn. You know that Owen’s an only child, and not a lot about his childhood – he’s not keen to share, and it’s not like he can go into depth about anything much right now.

‘You were okay with telling me,’ you murmur.

 He nods gently, turning his head to rest it against your belly.

‘You said it was because you trusted me?’

He nods again, blinking slowly.

You lean down. ‘Thank you for trusting me.’

He leans up to press his cool, wet nose against your face, closing his eyes.

* * *

You wake up feeling the weight in your lap shift. There’s the first grey dawn light creeping in the windows. The TV is on the Netflix menu.

You look down just in time to see the last bit of fur disappear off Owen’s ears as he returns to normal. He’s buck naked – there’s a few brave shreds of boxers that survived the assault lying around him on the couch. The curve of his hip gleams in the dull light, a shadow pooling in the crease of his thigh.

He stretches in his sleep, feet touching the end of the couch, before sluggishly curling up again, nuzzling into your lap. He’s still so, so warm.

You pet his hair and he rumbles in his sleep.

* * *

A few hours later, you’re both properly awake, nursing coffees at the kitchen bench. He’s put on boxers – one of his newer pairs. You’re still enjoying the view. He probably knows that and is doing it on purpose.

‘So that happens every full moon?’ you ask.

‘Mhmm,’ he hums as he sleepily sips his coffee. ‘Full moon, and the night either side of it. There’s enough moonlight to trigger it or something.’

‘So do you just… hang out here, then? Like last night?’

He swallows. ‘No – I usually go out. Have a run. Catch a rabbit or something.’

‘…and eat it?’

He belatedly realises that probably wasn’t a really good thing to say, and hunches slightly. ‘Yeah. Waste of good meat.’

‘That makes sense,’ you say dully.

‘You’re taking this very well,’ he says softly.

‘Were you expecting a nervous breakdown or something?’

‘I dunno – I was ready for it, but honestly I couldn’t call it. You’re always pretty collected… down to earth, and all that, but telling people isn’t very easy. I knew I could trust you, but I didn’t think you’d be this cool about it.’

You’re flattered. ‘I’m sure it’ll sink in and I’ll freak out eventually. But I mean… It’s not like you were a vicious howling beast or anything. More like a really big dog.’

He laughs. ‘I was hoping you’d be _slightly_ more impressed.’

‘Oh, Christ – I’m really impressed, but I was expecting something a little less… domestic. More wild. You’re very woolly, though.’

He looks vaguely insulted. ‘Okay – tomorrow night we’re going to the forest, and I’m showing you just how wild and undomesticated I can be.’

You grin. ‘You going to roll around in some leaves for me? Gonna be a big vicious howling beast and bark at cars?’

The fine hair across his shoulders and arms stands up as he glowers at you over his coffee cup. ‘I don’t need to go further than the bedroom to show you how much of a vicious howling beast I can be.’

It’s not just your heart that flutters.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably become multi-chapter if enough people show interest in it.


End file.
